My poet, my parent, my child, my sibling, my friend,
write me a world where I can soar.
Let the words pour from your mouth and
let the rivers erode and wear through orange rock.
Tell me a story of eagles and frontiers and wars
to have been and let it all be.
Then, once it is polished, craft it with your hands
forge it out of steel and soil and gunpowder
from the fiery heart and hold it gently—
wrap it in milky fabric, not too tight.
Tie it to the foot of a pigeon
and send it to me (us)—
let it fall from the sky like a miracle.
Make it a dream, winged and ethereal
Make it ugly and regular,
proud and defiant,
one and many,
extraordinary and welcoming.
It will weather and twist
and wear and rip,
but those who truly know it
will hold it, breathe life into it.
To love one’s country
is (not) to love every single person in it.